


Acts of Cruelty

by merseus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Draco is a patient, Draco might be a killer, F/M, Hermione is a doctor, Manipulation, Therapy, acts of cruelty, dark au, mentions of crime scenes, the hannibal au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merseus/pseuds/merseus
Summary: Dr. Hermione Granger is called in to consult on the Death Eater case. What she finds is a messy web of lies that seems nearly impossible to untangle. Worst of all, she finds herself caught in the middle of it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Acts of Cruelty

There was something so strange to be seeing the old hospital once more. The outdated exterior haunted the otherwise pleasant landscape. The heavy rain and fast swiping from her old windshield wipers provided her with mere glimpses of the Victorian building. Dr. Hermione Granger pulled into one of the many empty spots in the parking lot and turned off her car. The young woman couldn’t bring herself to move just yet so she waited. She told herself she was waiting for the rain to let up but a part of her knew that it was just an excuse to waste time. The rain pelted her roof and thundered above her head. 

She didn’t want to go in. 

The young doctor was apprehensive about stepping into the building, scared that somehow the walls would cage her in. Hermione hadn’t pictured herself ever returning to St. Mungo’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Yet, here she was, sitting in her car, debating on whether or not it was worth it to just blow off her old mentor. 

She hated that place.

The air was thick with the shared madness of its inhabitants, the feelings of the many patients clung to her like a second skin. It was something that stayed with her for hours—no, days—even after she left. She’d much rather her own little practice, where the chairs were comfortable and the patients were not deemed legally insane.

Hermione reached for the red umbrella that was sitting by her purse, she grabbed both items quickly without a second thought. The velcro made the familiar ripping sound as she prepared to face the storm outside. She angled the umbrella to try and cover as much of herself as possible, knowing that her legs would most likely be soaked no matter what she did. Hermione opened the door and plunged herself into the rain and whatever awaited behind the unassuming walls of the hospital.

The rain hit the umbrella and rolled down the outer canopy. It created a cacophony of sounds that was oddly comforting for some reason. She was careful of the many cracks in the sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Whether it was because of childhood superstition or her building fear about what her former teacher meant when he said consultation, she wasn’t sure. She counted them anyway to focus her mind. Thirty-two cracks.

When she finally reached the door, she pressed the button to alert the staff that she was there. Hermione was unsure what the proper etiquette would be once she was in the building and facing her mentor. The young woman closed her umbrella as she waited. Should she shake his hand? Could she decline his offer? Was she supposed to decide if the patient was insane? Hermione wasn’t sure, and that irritated her to no end. 

The sound of the door unlocking jolted her from her spiraling thoughts. She quickly grasped the cold metal of the door handle and pulled the heavy door open. The entrance of the hospital opened up to her and she stepped in without a second thought of herself or the outside. The door shut behind her and the lock was reengaged. The resounding click was as loud as the rain and her pounding heart.

Hermione shook the few droplets of rainwater that clung to the polyester fabric of her umbrella. She took the time to look around the room, took the time to take in her surroundings. Despite the outside, the interior of the hospital felt modern. A sort of minimalism was present in the entrance. The juxtaposition of the shell of the building and the inside was somewhat jarring. She wondered if this modernism was present throughout the hospital or if it was just in the places technically open to the public. She wasn’t optimistic about what the cells and rooms looked like. Severus Snape was a man who cared about public appearance, not private ones. 

“You’re late.” A monotone voice noted to her left. Hermione turned to meet the doctor because she hadn’t noticed her former mentor’s approach. He looked more or less the same. Dark eyes framed with even darker circles, black long hair softly curved to rest on his porcelain pale face. Severus Snape looked exactly as she had remembered. The only thing that betrayed the passage of time was the wrinkles now deeply set in his forehead. He must have been scowling a lot. 

She fixed her posture and smiled politely at him. “Would you believe me if I told you it was because of the weather?” Hermione asked, fidgeting with the umbrella as to prove her point. It was a flimsy excuse. She had avoided coming, took the longest route possible to try to work up the courage to abandon this task. Dr. Severus Snape regarded her carefully, looked her over with his sharp eyes. The younger woman could feel the way his eyes lingered on her, trying to read the unspoken things she was communicating. She hated it, hated the way it felt, hated the way her body betrayed her thoughts. “Stop psychoanalyzing me,” she snapped at him.

Snape didn’t seem deterred by her snippy response. The older man met her eyes once more despite her simmering anger. “I’m glad you could make it,” he breathed out, changing the subject quickly. Hermione nodded slowly, anger dissipating. She wasn’t glad that she had come. The cold sterile air nipped at the exposed flesh of her arms and caused her to shiver. She wasn’t sure if it was from the supposed cold or the outright dread she was feeling. The young woman let the smile drop from her features pretending not to notice how stiff Snape was. Hermione was worried.

She cleared her throat, stepping closer to her old teacher as she did so. “Why am I here?” She didn’t care how blunt she sounded. It was an innocent question that seemed to burn her entire being. The whole reason she was there was because her curiosity prevailed over her uneasiness. Hermione knew him well enough to know that he would appreciate her forwardness.

“You’re one of the only competent psychiatrists in my contacts,” Snape shrugged, motioning her to follow with a small movement of his hand. Hermione noticed right away that he didn’t really answer her question. It was a slight misdirection, effectively dodging the question for the time being. He didn’t technically say why he called her, or who she was going to be seeing. He answered in a way that was supposed to placate her for the time being. Hermione followed him because she had assumed they would be moving to his office. She knew the conversation was going to turn into something more serious, and he was nothing if not private. Hermione followed him, noticing that as soon as she stepped past the main doors and walked further into the inner workings of the building, the hospital’s aesthetic shifted back. Exactly like she had predicted. It became dark and gloomy, outdated even. The plain grey walls seemed to stretch for miles in front of her. They took a few turns before he stopped in front of the large double doors of his workspace. 

Snape opened the door, letting her into his spacious office first before making his way behind the dark mahogany desk. “Granger, please, have a seat.” He motioned to one of the chairs placed in front of the furniture. She sat down, placing her umbrella and bag by her feet. The office felt like something pulled straight out of a catalog, She noticed quickly that it was lacking any real personal touches. No picture frames were present to hint at a family or achievements. It was just the bare minimum. The soft golden glow from the desk lamp illuminated the otherwise dark room. Hermione felt awkward as she waited for clarification or anything really. 

“What do you know about the serial killer known as _‘Death Eater’_.” Snape folded his hands in front of him, watching her reaction to the crude name.

Hermione felt her heart sink but tried not to let it show. “From what I read and saw on the news,” she began uncomfortably, “He ate the people he murdered.” Apparently, Snape still didn’t believe in small talk. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, to supply him with facts of the case. Hermione didn’t—more appropriately she couldn’t. The young woman didn’t obsess over every detail of the case. She didn't like to dwell on the darkness of the world. As jaded as it sounded, serial killers were something in passing. A conversation among strangers in the grocery line expressing their disbelief at magazine headlines. The fascination with these killers faded quickly as something equally horrific made its way into the public eye the following week. 

Hermione didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

“I have the unique opportunity of housing the very man in my facility,” Snape explained bluntly. “They are evaluating a certain claim from his lawyer and our therapy has stalled.” A sick feeling began creeping its way up her throat. They were trying to figure out if Death Eater was insane. They wanted her to continue therapy—continue investigating his mind to find the validity of their defense. 

“Why me?” Hermione’s voice caught in her throat, she had to clear it twice. The young woman knew that Snape had caught onto her discomfort. It was silent. She noticed the rain had become a mere tapping on the window instead of a pounding force. She should have been home by now, talking with her friends with a bottle of wine. The young woman wondered if her cat would be waiting for her at the door, upset because she was so late.

“He no longer trusts me,” Snape sighed, bringing her back to the present. Hermione listened carefully. “He’s suspicious of me,” the older male corrected. Snape looked uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure if it was because he was admitting it aloud or if it was because he was asking for help. “I wanted to bring in someone I trusted to continue treatment…”

Hermione felt a sudden burst of anger at her former teacher. “Someone you trusted or someone that would just defer to your diagnosis?” She glared at him, unsure where her newfound courage had bubbled up from. The beige chair she was sitting on let out a slight creak as she stood up. Hermione told herself that she would leave depending on how he answered. It made her feel like she had more control of the impossible situation she found herself in.

“I respect your opinion as a doctor,” Snape began, not taking offense at her implication. “I asked you here specifically because I trust and value your opinion and I honestly think that you would be good for him.”

His answer settled the brewing storm inside of her. Hermione sat back down, twisting a dainty ring back and forth on her finger lost in her thoughts. It was a nervous habit that had stuck with her. She noticed the way his eyes flickered momentarily to her hands. An emotion she couldn’t quite recognize flashed across his dark irises before the stoic man regained his composure. “I would be good for him?” She picked up on his choice of words. Something about his gaze made her feel uncomfortable. 

“A good match,” her former teacher clarified. “I remember working alongside you years ago. I know you’re brilliant and I know you can handle this.” Hermione was touched by the sentiment of his words but knew there was some other truer meaning to asking her there. She didn’t press it. She knew him enough to know that if he felt she needed to know then he would tell her. Hermione trusted him enough to let it go.

“Do you think he is insane?” Hermione heard herself ask. Some part of her wanted to know what her former mentor thought. She didn’t care if it colored her opinion of the other man.

Snape seemed to think for a moment before responding, seeming to taste the words as he uttered them. “In my opinion, Draco Malfoy is extremely intelligent. I think that this insanity plea his lawyer is arguing is simply a means to escape capital punishment. However, I do not think or believe that he is insane.” Snape looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes and she picked up on that immediately. Was he not sure? Was she there for a second opinion? Did he truly not know? Was he lying?

The young psychiatrist nodded, taking in what he had said—and what he didn’t—and filing it away for later. “Okay,” Hermione paused, giving herself and her thoughts the time to process what was happening. Her thoughts were as scattered as the constellations that hung in the nighttime sky. Hermione tried to focus on one particular thing but couldn’t. Too many unknown factors began a spiral of endless questions. The young woman took a breath to focus, realigning herself in the process. “What treatments have you tried and why is he suspicious of you?” Those were the two questions that instantly came to her mind. It was the perfect way to begin building a plan to approach Draco Malfoy. She didn’t want to go into it woefully unprepared. 

“I used light therapy mostly.” The older male opened a drawer in his desk and produced a crystal glass. Hermione watched him pour himself a half-glass of whiskey. The ember liquid captured the light as Snape held it in front of him. She frowned at him, but he seemed indifferent to her displeasure of his drinking on the job. “Yet, the only thing I’ve seemed to have learned is that Mr. Malfoy does not like therapy,” Snape offered. 

She was not optimistic that her approach would work. “I mainly use just a form of talking therapy… Maybe some association and dream analysis,” Hermione explained. “I don’t think I would be a very good match for him as a therapist.” The young woman made sure to tack on the last bit. She wanted to see Snape’s reaction when she used his own words against him. She didn’t forget that he said they would be a good match. The way he said it made her think that he wasn’t looking at her as a psychiatrist, that he was looking at her as something else.

Snape didn’t react.

At least, he didn’t react in any remarkable way that it showed. Hermione studied his face for several moments but gave up as soon as she realized he was controlling his microexpressions. “You have a very high level of empathy,” Snape said after a long sip of the honey-colored whiskey. He didn’t elaborate or explain any more than that. Again, it wasn’t really an answer or explanation as to why she was there. Hermione sighed when she realized that those eight words were all she was likely to get. She resigned herself to the fact that he was keeping something from her.

“Am I going to meet him today?” Since the conversation had begun, a sort of shadow of the man had begun to take form in her mind. Hermione had no idea what Draco Malfoy looked like. He remained a faceless figure lurking at the edge of her vision. Part of her was tempted to look him up, to see what photos were being used on all the major news outlets. Another part of her warned against the casual glance into her future patient’s life. 

“I was thinking you could meet him next week,” Snape nodded to himself. It gave her the weekend to prepare. “I want to see his reaction when I introduce you as his new therapist.” It was a small comment that her mind latched onto. Everything was an experiment. Snape was just curious about what would happen, how Draco would react to a sudden change. 

A surge of something close to protectiveness consumed her. Draco was her patient now. A suspected serial killer maybe, but her patient nonetheless. Hermione didn’t want Snape to instigate something from the other man without a purpose.

“I was actually thinking I could see him alone?” Snape narrowed his dark eyes at her. “I mean, I want him to trust me and I think the best way of going about that is separating the two of you and the two of us,” Hermione rushed to explain herself, feeling the need to like she did all those years ago. Her mind screamed to bring up the questionable suspicion that shrouded her former mentor with Draco. She didn’t. “If I go in with you won’t it seem like I’m on your side?” 

Dr. Severus Snape regarded her very carefully and she didn’t blame him. She felt like she had done something wrong. “I suppose you’re right.” The older male said after a tense and silent moment. Hermione felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. 

“I just want him to trust me… I just want to be an effective part of his treatment, of course,” Hermione hastily added. “I would still love to hear your opinion on whatever Mr. Malfoy and I discuss,” the young woman swallowed thickly, the words seemed caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend herself. 

“Yes,” Snape nodded slowly, eyes tracing the features of her face before he quickly averted them. “We should sit down after your sessions and regroup.” 

Hermione nodded, understanding that Snape still needed to be involved in the process somewhat. She also knew that the meetings after would focus on her—acting as her own therapy as she delved into the mind of Draco Malfoy.

There was a lull in the conversation. It grew silent between the two doctors, quiet enough where she could hear his harsh swallow of whiskey and the tapping of the rain on the window. “This has been a very exciting and tiring discussion,” she began as politely as she could, “However, since I’m not meeting my patient nor can find any real reason to stay… I think I’ll be taking my leave now.” 

Snape chuckled mirthlessly at her comment, raising his glass to salute her. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her. “I look forward to working with you again, Granger.” Hermione smiled a little before bending down and reaching for her things. “You are okay with this, correct? You can say no.”

The younger woman froze at that. The grip on her possessions tightened momentarily as she thought of what to say. “It’s fine. I’m peachy. Can’t wait,” she rushed out. Snape didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t rescind his offer of temporary employment. In that moment Hermione realized that he was offering her an out. Snape wanted her to make the move, to pass up a conversation with the cannibalistic monster known as Death Eater. He was framing it so that it was her decision, so even if she regretted it later he could look back and tell her that he gave her a choice. She hated him in that moment. Hermione swallowed thickly, “I’ll see you Monday.”

It was only when she was in her car that she realized he never answered one of her questions. Snape never told her why Draco was suspicious of him. Hermione drummed her fingers on her steering wheel, wondering why he avoided that question in particular. Maybe she would just ask Draco instead.

When she crossed the hospital’s property line she breathed a sigh of relief. Hermione felt its grasp on her as it tried to pull her back but she continued the drive home, ever aware of the tightness in her chest.

* * *

“You look like you’ve had a long week,” Luna said over the rim of the stemless wine glass. The Rosé seemed to glow when the pinkish light from the salt lamp next to her hit it just right. The petite blonde woman was tucked into the corner of the stone gray couch, fuzzy pajama pants peeking out from the sage green throw blanket draped over her. Luna Lovegood had been her best friend for as long as she could remember and every Friday they dedicated the night to drinking wine and talking about their week. It had been a longtime tradition for the two.

Hermione sort of laughed sort of sighed at her best friend’s statement. “Long day more like it,” she rolled her eyes, thinking of Snape and her impending doom. She crossed her ankles under the dark coffee table in front of her, back pressed against the front of the sofa as she tried to get comfortable. She was on the floor, looking down at her muddled reflection in the pink wine. Though she was mentally drained she didn’t want to cancel their plans.

Neville, her other best friend, emerged from the kitchen with a small charcuterie board full of some cheese and crackers. “What happened?” The lanky man asked before setting down the food on the old coffee table. He sat across from Hermione, popping a green grape into his mouth as he looked at her curiously. 

Neville was a new addition to their Friday rituals, but he seemed to fit right in so comfortably it was like he had been there for years. She had invited him after introducing the pair months prior. Luna and Neville had bonded over their shared love of plants and classical literature and the rest was history. Neville was still in his work slacks, but he had unbuttoned some of the top buttons of his collared shirt and his tie was hanging somewhere on the back of one of her kitchen chairs. He had rushed over from his lab at the hospital after his shift was over.

“Snape called me today,” Hermione began. Neville spluttered on his wine as Luna perked up at the familiar name. His brown eyes were wide with panic. They had barely survived rotations with the doctor years ago and she wasn’t surprised by his reaction.

“Why does that name sound so familiar?” The blonde woman asked.

“Dr. Snape was the man who made Hermione and I’s lives hell,” Neville said, grabbing some cheese and crackers and his wineglass from where he had set it down from before. He looked away like the mere thought of the man would drudge up bad memories. The curly-haired woman didn’t blame him.

Luna hummed thoughtfully, swirling her drink for a moment. “Well, what did he want?”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she should tell them. Not just because of patient confidentiality but she wasn’t sure what they would think of her for agreeing so easily, so quickly. She wasn’t even sure what she thought of herself yet. “I’m consulting on a patient of his,” the young doctor swallowed uncomfortably.

“A criminally insane patient?” Neville looked pale. 

“An alleged insane person,” Luna winked at her but the other woman could see the worried gleam in her eyes. “Would we have heard of this person? I’m assuming he called you in for a high profile case.” Hermione hummed thoughtfully at that, she didn’t say anything to confirm or deny her friend’s suspicion. Luna was smarter than her own good sometimes. Any other hints and she might figure out who her patient is.

Neville looked queasy. “You’re interviewing a serial killer, aren’t you?” The small room grew quiet. Hermione felt her heart beat painfully in her chest. She wanted more than anything to break the silence but she didn’t know what to say or whether or not she should begin defending herself. “Do you know who it is?” Neville asked curiously. She nodded slowly at first and then more surely. The young psychiatrist wasn’t scared of her new patient or what that meant for her. Her friend frowned into his wine. 

“It’s fine,” she tried to reassure her friends or herself, she wasn’t sure. “Snape called me only to change up his therapy, that's all there is to it. I’m there to confirm his diagnosis really,” Hermione rolled her eyes playfully but the tense atmosphere didn’t dissipate. Maybe she was downplaying her role in Draco’s therapy and diagnosis but she didn’t really want her friends to worry. Hermione thought it was the best thing to do for them and herself.

“Is there a specific reason why he wants you to be the one to be the one…” Neville couldn’t even finish the thought. Part of her wondered if he thought she shouldn’t be the therapist on the case, shouldn’t be the one who talked to the criminally deranged. The thought made the sweet wine taste bitter.

Luna piped up suddenly, “I’m curious about that answer as well.”

Hermione leaned forward and set her glass down with a small frown. “I don’t know what you want me to say because I honestly don’t know why he decided to call me,” she shrugged, grabbing a few crackers from the board. Luna held out her hand because she wanted some as well. Hermione obliged, handing over some before looking back at Neville. “I don’t mind helping him though.”

“He was awful to you. I don’t understand why you want to help him. Let alone why you agreed to help with someone could be insane,” Neville scoffed before seeming to realize something, he flushed with embarrassment. “It makes sense though if he’s struggling. You’re an amazing doctor,” the dark-haired male added quickly as if to remedy what he had said before.

Luna hummed in agreement before finishing her glass of wine. She stood up to grab the bottle and sat down on the floor next to Hermione. “Did he say anything about why he wanted you specifically?” Luna asked through a mouthful of cheese.

Hermione thought back to their odd conversation, the one that she had been replaying in her mind for hours. “He said something about my empathy,” she held out her hand and Luna gave her a fig and olive cracker smeared with some goat cheese.

“So he’s using you,” Neville gripped his glass tightly in his hands. “He can’t connect with the monster so he wants you to?” Luna held the bottle out so she could refill his glass but he shook his head. Hermione was grateful when her friend gave her a little extra. 

“I don’t think I like the idea of that old doctor using your ability to connect with people and twisting it to meet his needs,” the blonde woman said solemnly. “I just want you to know that I will support you and your every decision. If you decide to talk to this man then I will be here every Friday with a bottle so we can talk about it. If you want,” Luna squeezed her thigh affectionately. Hermione felt herself relax for what felt like the first time that day since she had received the phone call. Maybe she had been waiting for someone to tell her it was okay, that her morbid curiosity was okay. 

“Or not talk about if you don’t,” Neville shot her a friendly wink and she smiled at her two friends. 

“Yes, can we please talk about something else? Anything else?” Hermione asked, wanting more than anything for their Friday evening to get back on track. She looked at her two friends with a pleading look. Her orange cat crept out of the bedroom, jumping into the spot previously occupied by the other woman. Crookshanks began to knead the blanket.

Luna rubbed her hands on her fuzzy pants, feeling the soft fabric under her pink painted fingernails. Sometimes her friend reminded her of a cat. “I finally found something to display all the store’s crystals,” she looked up at Neville suddenly, “Do you think you can help me build it? I’ve never really been good at instructions,” the blonde woman shrugged. She had been looking for something that showcased and stored the variety of crystals she offered. Luna had a little shop in town filled with herbs, books on witchcraft, and exotic teas. Hermione loved it there.

The male doctor sighed before chuckling softly to himself, “Sure thing, Luna.” He leaned back on his hands to look at them fully. “Just send me a text when it comes in and I’ll either swing by after work or when I’m not on shift.” Neville was a pathologist at the closest hospital, though Hermione thought he had the talent to become a surgeon if he wanted to.

“What’s the latest with you and Ron? Are you guys back together?” Luna asked and Hermione took a big gulp of wine avoiding the question if just for a moment longer. “I’m assuming that it means that it’s not good,” she frowned softly. 

Neville scoffed a little. “I thought after the last breakup you were going to stop seeing him?” Hermione knew his feelings about the red-haired man. Neville was the one who picked her up after a disastrous dinner that ended with her sobbing alone in the parking lot after Ron had left her there. Every time they broke up, she told herself she would never go back to him. They both came crawling back to one another after weeks apart. She knew it wasn’t healthy. There was definitely some codependency happening but she couldn’t help herself. He was familiar. Ron was comfortable. They fell back into the rhythms of their relationship no matter who broke it off.

“We haven’t decided anything. He did call me the other night though,” she bit her lip when Neville let out a groan. Luna looked at her to continue but Hermione wasn’t sure where to start so she stayed quiet.

“Was he drunk?” Neville asked seriously, his brown eyes studied her carefully. The last few times they had gotten back together was after a drunk call or text. 

“I didn’t answer so I wouldn’t know,” Hermione shrugged. “I figured I would just call him back if he didn’t first.” She wanted to see if he would call her back or if it was just a drunk dial. They haven’t spoken since their very public breakup.

“Be careful,” Luna said, sipping her wine. It was an odd thing to say suddenly. She had a faraway look in her eyes like she wasn’t really there like she was seeing something off in the distance—something distant in the future. Hermione didn’t believe in prophetic visions but she decided to heed her friend’s words. 

* * *

Hermione stared at herself in the small mirror that her sun visor provided. She dotted more concealer under her eyes hoping to cover the dark circles from her sleepless night. She hadn’t slept well, her own dread and curiosity about Draco Malfoy kept her up. The young doctor wondered if he would be able to tell, sense her fear even. 

She tried not to think about it. Hermione pulled her curly hair into a braid and pushed her visor up. She decided to leave her bag in her car. She couldn’t imagine Snape allowing her to take it with her when she saw Draco.

The young psychiatrist waited to be buzzed into the building, bouncing on her toes with the excess nervousness she was feeling. Hermione hadn’t eaten breakfast, too scared that she might lose her meal on the way over. Instead, she just felt strangely empty. 

When she was let into the building, Snape was waiting for her. He looked her over, seeming to assess her choice of wardrobe before greeting her. Hermione was suddenly self-conscious of the outfit she chose. “Is this okay?” She wanted to appear professional, put together. Another part of her wanted Snape to tell her to go home. The periwinkle blouse she was wearing was her favorite, her black skirt the most breathable and comfortable thing she could find in her messy closet. She even wore heels to give herself some extra height since she was so small. She was nervous, nervous about meeting Draco, nervous about making an utter fool of herself.

“You look fine,” Snape said stiffly. Hermione relaxed somewhat, unsure of what to make of his lackluster response. She wondered if he wanted her in something different, wondered if he pictured her in something that made her look meeker, smaller than what she actually was. Hermione already thought she was small enough.

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled, noticing his tired eyes. She gripped her hands in front of her to get them to stop shaking. “Am I going to be allowed to take notes?” She knew she was bound to miss something that he said and wanted something to be able to study later. 

Snape nodded. “There are a few stipulations that come with seeing him,” the older male explained. “You can have a notebook as long as there is no metal and you have to use a pencil, no pens, and you cannot give him anything, not even a piece of paper.”

Hermione nodded, mind reeling with what he said. “Got it.” Her mouth felt incredibly dry. 

“Follow me,” he turned and began walking through the hospital. Hermione followed him, walking in his shadow. She wondered if her decision would mean she would continue to walk in Snape’s shadow, continue down a path of darkness that she would never escape from. Hermione tried not to dwell on her thoughts but the longer they walked the more persistent they became. She would end up just like him. They made a few turns and then began the long descent into the basement area. It was the most secure part of the facility. 

Snape stopped at the top of the steps, he scowled down at the metal doors like Draco might actually see him. “Down the steps, you will find an orderly. His name is Zabini. He will guide you to Mr. Malfoy and provide you with a chair and supplies.” Hermione shot him one last look before starting down the stairs. 

“Granger—” Snape called. She looked up at him curiously. “Lose the Hello Kitty bandaid.”

She felt her cheeks heat inadvertently as she nodded. Snape turned and left her to her embarrassment. Hermione bent down and yanked the fresh bandaid off her scratch. That morning Crookshanks decided to attack her ankles because she had forgotten to give him his morning treats. She winced as the skin was tugged. The cut looked wet. She half expected it to start bleeding again. Hermione wasn’t sure where she should put her folded up bandaid so she kept a hold of it as she continued to where she was supposed to meet the orderly.

He was leaning against the wall when she approached him. He was reading a book, but he looked up when she cleared her throat. “You must be Dr. Granger,” he smiled. His teeth were perfectly straight, perfectly white. She was taken back by how handsome he was. “I’m Blaise.” 

“Hermione,” she held out her hand, the one that was not holding her used bandaid. “I was wondering if you had a notebook and pencil I could use?” The young doctor looked at the man in front of her. He pulled a small notebook out of one of his large white scrub pocket and provided her a small pencil with a dull tip. She thanked him anyway, accepting the supplies but making a mental note to bring her own for the next session. 

“You’re not what I was expecting,” Blaise said with a little laugh. The orderly grabbed the folding chair that was leaning against the opposite wall and moved to open the locked metal door in front of them. He turned the key quickly and held open the door for her.

She was confused by his statement. “What were you expecting?” Hermione looked at the back of the head of the man in front of her as he guided her deeper and deeper into the lower level of the hospital. It grew gloomier as they descended.

“Someone old. Someone not so small. Someone not so pretty,” Blaise shrugged, he stopped them in front of another locked door. Hermione bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say anything. “Malfoy is in the last cell. Press the buzzer when you want to come back to the world of the living.” The man handed her the chair and opened the door for her. “Word of advice?” Blaise gave her an encouraging look and she took a deep breath. “Don’t pass the red line. I can’t stop you if you decided to do so though.”

Hermione nodded and said a soft goodbye to the orderly. She struggled to move with her hands full, but she somehow managed. The first thing she really noticed was the red line that divided the space. It was a clear distinguished separation that divided the room. The free and the caged and captured. It was painted a few feet before the bars of the cells. To her right was a solid concrete wall and to her left were the patients behind bars. Hermione swallowed her building fear and held her head up high as she walked down the hall. She tried to ignore the few patients that called to her and those who just stared blankly. 

She finally reached the end of the hall, the last cell. Hermione Granger finally reached Draco Malfoy. 

It was quieter near his cell. It was like the very laws of the universe bent their will around him. Draco Malfoy wasn’t looking at her when she approached the red line, but he froze when she opened the chair. She wasn’t sure what he was doing but she guessed that he was either writing or sketching on the surface of the small desk shoved in the corner. The platinum blond male stopped whatever he was doing to glance back at her. 

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

He looked as surprised as she felt. When she pictured the suspected cannibalistic killer she hadn’t pictured someone so young. Someone who couldn’t be five years older than her. His steely eyes narrowed on her as she sat down. Some small and primal part of her wanted to run. There was something about his electric gaze that reminded her of a caged animal, it screamed danger. “If Snape thinks he can send in some pretty girl to get me to talk then he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does,” Draco sneered at her. 

She cleared her throat hoping that her voice wouldn’t fail her. “My name is Dr. Hermione Granger and I’m your new psychiatrist,” she explained. Her voice came out softer than she expected as her mind raced with every subtle detail he was giving her. Draco stood and grabbed the chair that he was previously sitting in and moved it so it was directly in front of her. The only thing she noticed was how tall he was, she realized he would tower over her. Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Can you tell me why that is?” She realized she was still holding the pink bandaid. She wished that she could focus on the man in front of her but her nerves made her spiral. Should she just place it on the floor? Should she shove it into the band of her skirt?

There was less of an accusatory glint in his eyes as he looked her over carefully. “I have to tell you why you’re my therapist?” He sounded bored. She realized she probably wasn’t off to a great start. 

Her face felt warm and she was sure she went red. “Snape didn’t tell me–” 

Draco cut her off, suddenly interested. “You don’t know why you’re my doctor, do you?” Something flashed in his bright eyes. She wanted to note that but refrained from doing so. Hermione didn’t dare open the notebook. He technically hadn’t agreed to therapy and she didn’t want to overstep some invisible boundary. As foolish as it made her, some part of her wanted him to trust her. 

Hermione shifted slightly so she was more comfortable. She took his question as an invitation for conversation. “Dr. Snape wouldn’t tell me,” she admitted quietly. “I asked him, but he avoided answering me.”

Draco scoffed at her statement. “He tends to do that,” the blond man said somewhat bitterly. Hermione realized that he was studying her. She could feel the way his eyes traced over her, felt his eyes linger on certain parts of her. The young doctor tried not to shiver under his gaze. She noticed that he didn’t answer her either. 

“There has to be a basis for an insanity plea. Why do people think you’re insane, Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She fiddled with the bandaid in her hand nervously. 

He was quiet for a moment, eyes flicking up to meet hers. Hermione was taken back by how tortured he looked. Draco looked almost beautiful to her. “People think I’m insane because I think I’m innocent—because I don’t think I’m insane.” He clasped his hands together, grip tight as he looked at her. She just then noticed that his fingers were darkened with lead. He was drawing before she came. Hermione didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what to say, but she knew she had to say something. It had grown silent between them.

“Do you think–”

Draco cut her off, venom back in his eyes and voice. “I don’t like therapy. I don’t like when people try to mess with my mind. Psychoanalysis is a muddy science.” Hermione blinked at his sudden outburst, feeling the sting of his last statement acutely. 

“This can be whatever you want it to be,” the young doctor conceded with a small nod. “If you want this just to be a conversation then I will respect that.” She barely believed what she was saying. Whatever she was proposing was exactly like therapy. It wasn’t like Draco had that much of a choice in the matter. Hermione was just trying to change his way of framing their sessions. 

“Even if I want it to be a visitation among old friends? Lovers even?” Draco asked, his eyes were lit with a sickly curious glint. He wanted to see her reaction, wanted to see what she would do. She tried not to let her panic show, tried not to make it obvious how uncomfortable she was with his eyes burning her. Hermione nodded slowly, even though the thought made her skin crawl. Her blood pounded in his ears and it was hard to breathe. Her skin felt too tight. She wanted to leave, wanted to run away as far as possible, and never look back. “I’m kidding,” he breathed, eyes still shadowed with a sort of destructive delight.

Hermione relaxed somewhat. A certain tension wound itself around her every muscle fiber until she was on the edge of uncomfortable. She met his eyes, trying to keep her cooled face of indifference. She knew it wasn’t working. “Since we’re friends,” she paused and Draco laughed a bit, “Do you want to tell me about the crimes you’ve committed?”

Draco tilted his head curiously, “Do you want me to tell you about the time I jaywalked? Or the time that I ran a red light? I didn’t kill those people and if I did I don’t think I would tell you.” The blond man glared at her. She could practically feel the daggers hidden in his gaze digging into her skin. “Don’t mistake my supposed insanity for unintelligence.” 

“I never said that you were unintelligent,” Hermione said meekly. She also didn’t believe herself capable of tricking him into confessing to the crimes either. “I asked you to tell me about the crimes because I simply don’t know anything about them.” She realized she could have worded it better. It made her seem like she knew nothing, that she came unprepared. 

Draco leaned back in his chair. It unnerved her how comfortable he looked in the blue jumpsuit, in the cell behind lines of bars. She supposed to him it must look she was behind bars, trapped. That was certainly how she felt. “I guess I should inform you that your patient is on trial for the murders of several people.” She noticed it right away. He said that he was her patient. 

“Do you mind if I come to court with you?” Hermione asked, wondering where he would draw the line of separation. She noticed that the scratch on her ankle itched and she shifted in the uncomfortable chair to relieve it.

“It’s pretty boring,” the man in front of her shrugged. “I pretend to be somewhere else.” That statement concerned her, but a larger part of her wondered where he went. That small voice in the back of her mind begged her to ask so she did.

“Do you do that often? Pretend to be somewhere else I mean?” Hermione hesitated. “Are you here with me right now?” Her voice was so soft, softer than she expected. It was almost like she was too scared to ask.

“Of course I’m here with you,” Draco answered gently like those six words came easier to him than breathing. “ _We’re_ just somewhere else.” 

He had a memory palace. That felt noteworthy, that felt monumental. Hermione now knew he was escaping somewhere, slipping away to someplace that felt safer to him. Even more importantly, she was there with him. 

“Where are we?” The young doctor asked.

Draco shut his eyes, a soft sigh escaping him. “Notre Dame,” he whispered suddenly. “We’re looking at the rose window. It’s beautiful.”

Hermione felt herself smile which felt odd in her situation. “I’ve never been.” She wondered if he was picturing a cathedral because subconsciously he felt like he should be confessing his sins to her or if he picked it because it meant something to him. Hermione didn’t pry. She felt his eyes on the notebook still untouched in her lap. 

“Shame,” he said after a moment, the edges of his lips pulling up into a slight wistful smile. “I think you would like it.” Hermione wanted to mention that he didn’t know very much about her but she kept that thought to herself. “Do you not want to take notes?” The suspected killer motioned to the small black notepad. 

“Do you believe yourself so important that I should?” Hermione wanted to be taking notes, she wanted to be writing every little thing down. She hated the fact that she would have to recall this conversation with the tinted bias of her recollection later. The young doctor knew that patient comfort was her top priority. She would do anything and everything in her power to make their sessions feel as though they were conversing like friends because that was what he wanted. It also increasingly felt like she had no other choice. If she wanted him to reveal anything to her then she would sacrifice noting his body language or the words he used.

“Would you diagnose me as a narcissist if I said yes?” Draco asked. 

“Perhaps,” Hermione agreed. “You told me you wanted this to be a conversation so I plan on keeping it that way. I don’t normally take notes on conversations. Though maybe I should…” She took the time to really look at his current living space. It was neat, he kept it as clean as he could. His bed had been made and the papers on his desk were orderly. Maintaining his neatness showed that he craved control in his current situation. She hated how she understood him.

“Why’s that?”

“A conversation with a former teacher is precisely why I find myself where I am currently sitting. Maybe if things had been different I would have realized that there was something off about his request,” the young doctor replied with a small shrug. She avoided saying Snape’s name even though they both knew who she was referring to. Draco was looking at her again in the way that made her skin crawl. Hermione dug her nails into the pink bandaid to ground herself. It sort of worked.

“Is there a specific reason why you’re my therapist?” Draco eyed her warily. She wasn’t offended by his mistrust of her because she had grown to expect it. When she imagined her conversations with him late at night she had run through multiple scenarios and behaviors that he might exhibit. A bouquet of mistrust and anger is what she grew to expect.

“I don’t know,” Hermione smiled softly at him. “I’m sure Snape picked me for a reason, in the same way, that I’m sure that we will figure out why you believe that you’re innocent.” She wanted to bring the conversation back to the original topic. The young woman was so tired of people talking in circles around her. 

Draco scoffed at that. “I’m being framed,” he spit out. The anger that came and went seemed to be burning him again. She fought the urge to wince away. Hermione kept having to tell herself that his anger was not directed at her, no matter how much it felt like it was.

Her mind immediately jumped to paranoia, to denial. Her fingers twitched to write it down. Hermione cleared her throat. “Why do you think you’re being framed?” The young doctor knew he had been caught, knew there had to be evidence against him in order for the arrest to stick.

Draco gave her an incredulous look. “That’s the first question you’re asking?” He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the concrete, and he began pacing the cell. “Nothing else comes to mind? Not who, not why?”

Hermione steeled herself. “Mr. Malfoy–”

“Don’t call me that!” Draco snapped at her, fixing his fiery gaze on her. The young doctor flinched away from him. Her muscles were tight and she had reflexively turned her head and shut her eyes. She repeated to herself that he was behind bars, that he couldn’t hurt her. Her heart still beat painfully in her chest. “I’m sorry, Dr. Granger,” the man in front of her breathed after moments of nothing. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. Draco was gripping the bars that caged him tightly.

Hermione took in a breath of air before meeting his gaze again. He was looking at her with a much softer expression. The malice and anger seemed to have melted away. “What do you prefer me to call you then?” She tried her best to smile but she couldn’t tell if it worked. Draco averted his eyes.

“Malfoy is fine,” he sighed, “My father was Mr. Malfoy. I’ve always just been Malfoy.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione repeated, letting the faux closeness he awarded her to roll off her tongue. It was just his last name, a name which she had used prior, yet it felt different. He gave her the name he wanted to be called, granted her permission to call it. _Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy._

“You’re bleeding,” he noted, nodding down to her ankle and effectively breaking her train of thought. Something she had done or when she flinched she brushed against something on the chair and reopened her scratch. Hermione bent down and swiped her finger across the thin cut and the small drop of blood tracing her ankle bone. She sighed when the trail of blood smeared across the pad of her finger. Malfoy stretched his neck to try to get a better look at what she was doing.

“Snape told me to lose the bandaid,” she laughed nervously showing him the bandage in her other hand. She had been holding it the entire time. Hermione crossed her ankle behind her other to try to hide it, clearing her throat hoping he would drop it.

“What happened?” Malfoy asked her. She hated how much it interested her whether he was curious or worried. There was a distinct difference and she couldn’t tell which she wanted. Curious meant he didn’t care. Worried meant that he did.

“My cat scratched me,” Hermione explained. She didn’t want to talk about herself. She wanted to talk about him. This was distracting her from the previous topic. The doctor wanted to explore his train of thought, his outright denial of the murders. If he didn’t think himself guilty then who did he believe murdered five people?

Malfoy was focused on her hand. “I could throw that out for you,” he nodded to the bandaid. Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. He wanted her to give him something, wanted her to cross the red line.

She eyed the painted barrier and then she met his gaze. “Why is the red line on the floor?”

The blond man chuckled mirthlessly. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.” It still wasn’t an answer and she tried not to let her frustration grow. Hermione gave him a look. “I won’t be trying to shoot my bodily fluids at you,” Malfoy amended.

Hermione made a face, something close to disgust made its way through her system. “Bodily fluids?”

“Honest to God,” he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Some of the patients see the red line as a competition. I wouldn’t do that to you,” Malfoy promised. “I’ll keep the spit in my mouth and hands out of my pants.” His eyes were locked on hers as she shivered. She wondered what other female doctors and nurses had to deal with at St. Mungo's.

“You don’t have a trash can,” Hermione pointed out. 

“I can flush it,” Malfoy countered.

The doctor was stunned into momentary silence. She wasn’t sure why he was so adamant about such a small bandage but she couldn’t pretend to understand. Maybe he wanted her to break the rules. Maybe he wanted to see if she would. The young woman set the notebook and pencil on the ground and stood before she could second guess herself. She could do this. She could prove to him that she would play his game. Hermione crossed the red line and took measured steps toward the suspected killer. 

Malfoy held his hand out between two of the bars. His fingers were pale and slender, dusted finely with the dark shavings of lead. They were perfectly still, hand cupped and waiting for her. She dropped the pink bandaid into his waiting palm, avoiding touching him. Hermione didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a friendly touch.

She took a step back to put some distance between them. Some part of her knew that if she lingered in reachable distance he might just grab her. Malfoy regarded the small folded thing in his hand for a few quiet breaths before he walked over to the almond white toilet. Closer than before she could really gauge his height and marveled at just how tall he was. In just a few strides he had crossed the length of his cell. He stood in front of the toilet so she couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands. Hermione watched as he reached to flush the toilet, watched as one hand slipped into his pocket. Then Malfoy turned back to her with a sort of secret grin and her blood ran cold.

A sort of horrifying dread dawned on her. Did he keep her bandaid? She couldn’t tell. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

Hermione took a shaky breath, determined to not let her terror show. “I think that I’ll end my visit here,” she weakly smiled. “It was nice meeting you, Malfoy.” The crack in her voice wasn’t hard to miss. 

Draco stood stiffly, gripping the back of his desk chair. “When can I expect you back?” There was a certain weakness in his voice and Hermione felt herself falter. His eyes were burning her in a new way. It was like he was trying to memorize her like he was scared she would never be back. Part of her wondered if he was trying to incorporate her into his memory palace so that even if she wasn’t physically there with him an image of her would be.

“How’s Wednesday?” Hermione asked. “I do have other patients,” the young doctor teased just slightly. It was a half-truth. She watched as the man in front of her sort of relaxed. It only made her feel guilty about lying to him. She was seeing a very select few patients, those she could handle. There were some things that she planned on keeping from Malfoy. Theodore Nott and his attack were one of them.

“I will count the hours until I see you again,” Malfoy nodded unsteadily. She wondered if he could sense her apprehension. If he did he didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his chair and went back to sketching. Hermione watched him as she had when she first approached and then she left. 

Blaise was silent when he met her by the doors. His presence was comforting after being on edge for so long. He seemed to realize that she needed a moment for herself because he gave it to her, slowed his pace so that it matched her languid movements. Hermione gave him back his notebook and pencil, laid the chair back up against the wall, and left without saying anything. 

She was exhausted, she felt physically drained. Hermione avoided Snape’s office. She couldn’t find it in herself to play his mind games. She felt like a ghost haunting the halls, drifting with no purpose but the torment of others and herself. She didn’t feel good about being able to empathize with a serial killer. 

Hermione shut her car door behind her and cried.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first full-length Dramione fic so please bear with me.


End file.
